


The Piece of Me I Wish I Didn't Need

by ab2fsycho



Series: Revolve [15]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: M/M, and wonder how the frick we all got here, guess eight years and six traumatizing games is enough to drive anyone mad, i'm still ignoring vital info, i'm still not sorry, more emotional trauma guys, there comes a time when you look at what's happening, this is one of those times, when did all of you start developing this much emotional damage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 04:02:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2215041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ab2fsycho/pseuds/ab2fsycho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Layton, Des, and Flora head for a confrontation when a certain Don Paolo interrupts everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Piece of Me I Wish I Didn't Need

Flora and Paul had been to see Clive. Clive had told them his therapy was going well. Whatever medication they were using on him, they still haven't figured out the right dosage. Somehow he'd forgotten that he'd already apologized for kidnapping her. After that visit, she and Paul had gotten lunch. Then they went to Kensington, where she was hoping to pick up a jacket.

“What, did Layton run out of clothing or something?”

She searched through the grey dress jackets, trying to remember the precise size. “No, he tore his grey one.”

“Hmph. I didn't know he wore grey.”

Paul folded his arms the way he tended to when he didn't believe her. She gave him the answer she'd rehearsed over and over in her mind. “He prefers brown, but he keeps at least one grey suit on hand. Just in case.”

“Just in case of what? He hasn't been to a formal event in years.”

“Well, one never knows and therefore one must be prepared.” As she continued sifting through jackets, she finally pulled the right one. “Aha!” she said triumphantly, taking it off the rack and bringing it to the front. She'd already sewn together and properly cleaned the ripped shirt. All that had been left was to replace the jacket. She'd saved up just enough of her allowance to do so.

Paul eyed the jacket as she paid for it. “Seems a bit long in the sleeves for your professor.”

She tried to make her shrug look casual. “These are the measurements I was given.” Once it was bagged and thrown over her shoulder they proceeded outside.

Paul was giving her another one of his suspicious looks. “Do you got a boyfriend no one's supposed to know about or something?”

She laughed at that. “If I did, wouldn't you be the first to know?”

He rolled his eyes. She was right. “And Layton would be the last to know, I presume.”

She nodded, knowing it was true enough. There was a fleeting moment where she wondered how her professor was holding up, but she quickly dashed the thought aside. If she thought too much about it now, Paul would catch onto the fact that something was worrying her. So instead, she smiled and they continued their errands without interruption.

:)

Layton woke up, not remembering exactly when he'd fallen asleep. He couldn't really remember how his nose had become buried in Des's hair either. Closing his eyes, he inhaled just to see if his hair had its own unique smell. It did. Drawing Des closer, he became aware of the fact that his mask had come off again. Sitting up slightly so he could look between them, he saw no sign of the thing. It wasn't until he glanced at the nightstand opposite him, one he rarely used, that he noticed the white mask staring back at him. Des must have taken it off while he was resting.

Settling back down into place beside Des, he found himself watching the other sleep. The event that had brought them together played back in his mind and he felt guilty all over again. The remorse worsened as he assessed the damage he'd done. Des's lip was no longer bleeding, but it was developing a purple hue around the split. Similar purple marks had begun to form on his throat. He berated himself for losing control over himself so totally, and seeing his handiwork only made the gravity of the situation worse. Thinking back, he didn't know how things would have worked out had he not lost it, though. He probably wouldn't be here, that's for sure. Even that couldn't placate the immenseness of his regret.

Des stirred, and without opening his eyes murmured, “You're staring.”

“Don't pretend you haven't watched me sleep.” He didn't think it would, but the comment actually brought a smirk to Des's face. It wasn't entirely happy, but it was something. He opened his eyes to look at Layton, blinking several times before settling on staring at what he must have thought was the general vicinity of his eyes. “Just how terrible is your eyesight? Can you give me a straight answer?”

“Terrible enough that your eyes aren't very visible. They just look like tiny black dots.”

“Ha. Like I haven't heard that before.” Running a hand down Des's arm, he caught sight of Des's grin before closing his eyes and leaning his forehead into Des's. He heard and felt the other sigh, and without opening his eyes to see guessed that it was a sigh of contentment. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore,” he answered honestly.

Layton nodded, having expected that to be the answer or at least something similar. “I'm sorry.”

“Please stop apologizing.” The professor looked at him as the man shrugged. “I've endured worse.” Had he not used those words himself to snipe at him, Layton might have agreed and let it go. As it was, he couldn't stop staring at the myriad bruises and scratch marks along Des's arms where Layton had grabbed him and Des had injured himself with his own nails. His thoughts were interrupted by Des's fingers running along his chest. “If you're still feeling bad, I bet you look pretty unwell yourself. I can't see them, but I can definitely feel some red whelps here,” he traced a pattern along Layton's collarbone. Then his hand ventured to the front of the professor's neck. “Here too.” His hand rested on Layton's cheek, thumb caressing the area just above the professor's jaw. “I think they stop here. Hm. I thought they went up higher than that.”

“Not for lack of you trying.”

“Either way, you did not walk out of this completely unscathed. Satisfied? Or would you feel better if I punched you in the face.” Layton did smile despite himself. “You're smiling. I can see your teeth. That's good. But don't think I'm joking. I will willingly punch you in the face. Free of charge.”

“I believe you.”

“You just might need to hold still so I can get my aim correct.”

Layton's smile widened. “Well, I'm glad you're feeling better.”

Des's smile turned small. “Better, yes. But I'm not quite myself.”

“Neither of us seem to have been ourselves. Not for a long while, I believe.”

Des nodded, closing his eyes and leaning into the professor's hold. This time, he also wrapped his arms around Layton's waist. “I'm not sure I know who I'm supposed to be anymore.” Layton couldn't help him with that. All he could do was hold him for the time being. Des pulled back slightly and before Layton could catch his breath, Des was kissing him again. He clearly didn't mean for the kiss to last, but Layton discovered that he wanted it to. Letting go of Des's waist, he reached up to take the other's face in his hands. Keeping their lips pressed together, Des exhaled through his nose before the sound became a moan. Des's hands made fists in the professor's shirt, encouraging Layton to come closer. The kiss grew frenzied, Des's tongue pushing its way into Layton's mouth. Layton groaned, hands sliding to the man's shoulders to embrace— “Agh!”

Layton pulled away, hand having brushed the open part of the wound. “I'm sorry! Are you alright?”

“I honestly can't wait till I don't have to deal with this anymore.” The professor could, though. He didn't say it aloud, but he felt it. He didn't realize he had taken the other's hands in his own and started squeezing until Des returned the pressure. Layton didn't make eye contact, but he could feel Des's stare. He tried to stave off the flood of emotion, tried to ignore the sole reason Des was here. He wasn't succeeding in his endeavors to stop the feeling, however. “I won't leave without saying anything to you.” While that was supposed to be comforting, all it did was make Layton feel worse for needing the reassurance. He knew Des would have to leave at some point. He was on the run. An unknown organization was looking for him. Staying just wasn't an option. But Layton suddenly feared the moment Des would have to continue running.

Avoiding yet more awkwardness, Layton let go of Des in favor of getting up. Before the other could ask what he was doing, he pointed to his torn shirt. “This is the second shirt you've ruined since I've known you.” That succeeded in making Des chuckle. There was also a light in his eyes that Layton had to ignore lest he wind up in bed with Des again. He shook his head at himself. How did things end up like this again? Not that he was complaining.

Opening his closet, he began sifting through his hangers when something caught his eye. When he realized what he was looking at, he let out a loud sigh and a smile spread across his face involuntarily. “Flora.”

“Hm?” Des asked.

“She taped the key in my closet,” he said, pulling said key free and holding it up so Des could see it over his shoulder.

Des snorted. “Clever girl.”

“Too clever, I believe.” Grabbing a shirt from the closet, he turned to hand Des the key. “Unlock the door and grab another shirt and we'll take care of your injury.” Des complied as Layton changed shirts, tossing the torn one with the bloody shirt Des had shed earlier. Picking up a spare shirt in his suitcase, Des proceeded out the door. “Aren't you going to . . . I don't know? Put on your mask?”

Des turned back to look at him, and Layton could see the uncertainty in the man's posture. “I'm not comfortable with it at the moment. Nor am I comfortable with the . . .,” he stopped, like acknowledging the existence of the glasses was still difficult for him. “I'm just not comfortable with any eye-ware at the moment.”

Layton understood, but he had to ask. “How do you intend to see? How will you—?”

Something about the look Des was giving him made him stop. Then the other declared, “I broke in here more times than I can count, and somehow you think I haven't memorized the layout of your home? It hasn't changed at all. I could draw you a blueprint!”

Layton laughed in spite of himself. “You already did.”

“I rest my case.”

Making their way to the kitchen, Layton was still rather astounded to see that Des had spoken true. He navigated the house as though it came naturally. One might even believe he lived there. Upon reaching the kitchen table, Des took a seat and waited for Layton's verdict on his wound. It didn't take long for Layton to assess the damage. One suture had been ripped out entirely, two more broken but not torn out. The wound itself was still closed for the most part, the one part where the suture had been torn out the only real issue. He didn't feel the need to replace the three sutures, instead electing to pull out the broken pieces and apply topical medication. After bandaging the injury, Des stood up to pull on his shirt. He was just straightening the material when the door opened and in walked Flora.

And though she was clearly telling him he didn't need to, Paul walked in with her.

:)

Des couldn't fathom how it must have looked, Flora and her guest stepping inside to see a not fully dressed professor and a stranger putting on his shirt in the kitchen. In fact, all pretense of manners went out the window when the guest asked in a loud and surprisingly high voice, “Who the hell are you?!”

“Who the hell are _you_?” Des asked in kind, though it probably wasn't the wisest choice. He felt the need to take a few steps back, the colors on the other man's outfit were so bright. And what exactly was the deal with his hat? Or was that his hair? Perhaps glasses or the mask or something to see with would have been a good idea, because Des wasn't entirely sure the person who'd just walked in behind Flora was human. Perhaps it was a dinosaur.

“I asked you first! You better start answering!” Des did actually lean his head back, thinking that would make the man easier to see. Nope. It did no such thing. The more he tried to see, the stranger the stranger appeared. “And quit your squinting! What are you, blind?!”

“Yes, actually,” Flora whispered to the man.

“Oh.”

Then Des looked to where he thought he saw Flora standing. Pointing at the man, he asked, “Is this Paul?”

He got his confirmation when the man bellowed, “That's Don Paolo to you! Now who the hell are you and what are you doing in Layton's house?!”

Layton stepped up. “Paul, this is—”

“Desmond,” Des interrupted. The name rolled off his tongue more naturally than he'd anticipated. Given the situation, he was glad of it. Addressing the stranger, he finished, “Desmond Sycamore. And what exactly is a Don Paolo?” That last bit was more to Flora than to the man she called Paul.

He couldn't see the entirety of Don Paolo's face, but he could see that there was a mustache, a big nose, and a menacing grin. Was that a grin? He saw teeth, but that did not look like a grin. Perhaps he was grinding his teeth. That seemed most likely. When the man who called himself Don Paolo spoke, his voice was softer but the venom in it had increased tenfold. “So it's not _your_ boyfriend you're running errands for. It's the professor's!”

Errands? “Huh?” was all that left Des's mouth. He was surprised that confusion was overriding his anger at the moment, because the more Don Paolo opened his mouth the less likely he was not to kill him.

“Flora, we need to talk,” Layton uttered to the girl. Oh, right. She'd locked them in a room. They should probably discuss that.

“We do. Des . . . mond,” she started, making his name sound ten times more like a false name than it already seemed. Which was ironic, really, because it actually was his name. Setting a large bag down on the kitchen table, she asked, “What happened to you?” Oh. She must be referring to the bruises. Yeah, those were rather incriminating.

Before he could say anything (as in lie his ass off about what had really happened), Don Paolo interrupted with, “I think we all need to talk! Let's start with why the hell _he's_ here!” He gestured towards Des.

“He's here because—”

Des cut the professor off again, defensiveness blooming as his ire returned. “It's none of your concern why I'm here.”

“Oh really? That sounds a bit suspicious to me! Why, you may ask? Because you look like you've been in a damn bar fight and have come to the professor for repairs!”

“And what if I have?” Des said, stepping forward to meet Don Paolo's challenge.

“I'd say Flora,” he gestured to the girl, “should probably steer clear of you!”

“That's not—,” Flora began, but was cut off as Des's fury ignited at such hypocrisy. 

“Well isn't that the pot calling the kettle black?”

“What the hell do you know about me?”

“Two words: Ferris wheel!”

Don Paolo pointed at the professor then. “That was _one_ time!”

“It's always just 'one time,' now, isn't it?”

“Both of you! Stop it!” Flora shouted, stepping between the two men. “Desmond is here as the professor's guest, and that is that!” Letting out a breath of air, she recovered like a master. Lowering her voice, she addressed them all, “Now if you would all please act like the gentlemen you are, we might be able to have a serious discussion.”

Delusional child. There was clearly only one gentleman in the room and Des was certain he was wide-eyed and overwhelmed at the moment. Why else would he be so quiet at a time like this? And was it just him, or was she stalling for him to develop a story? Most likely. He was grateful, even though he had no intention of explaining a damn thing to this disturbing creature. Without thinking, he uttered, “Flora, I'm questioning your choice of friends again.”

“Why is he here, Layton?” Don Paolo said, voice calmer.

Des didn't like how the man was now ignoring his presence entirely. “I just said it's none of your—”

“I'm asking the professor a question.” Though it did in fact quiet Des, he was not pleased at all with how this man behaved. “Why is he here?” Layton didn't answer. Des glanced at him, seeing that the professor was pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand. He wanted to reach out, but somehow knew now wasn't the time. “Is he a replacement for that kid?”

“Excuse me?” Layton's voice was harsh at that. Des almost wanted to warn Don Paolo of how sensitive a subject Luke Triton had always been, but doubted the man would listen. 

Plus, he wasn't entirely certain the man cared. “Why is he here, Layton?” he reiterated. “ _Is_ he your partner of some sort? What is he to you, and why did I walk in here while he was _getting dressed in your damn kitchen_?”

Layton began answering almost rapidly, a hint of irritation in his voice. “He's a close friend who has recently been injured, so he came to me for help.”

“Why not send him to the hospital, then? Why's he in your house, in your care?”

“He was released from the hospital,” Flora added quietly. Des had to hand it to her: she was a well-practiced actress.

But Don Paolo wasn't buying it. “Something is very wrong here, and I can smell it. In fact, it all smells like bullshit to me!”

“Look,” Layton snapped, stepping closer to Des and placing a hand on his. Des was dumfounded at the contact, so alarmed that he felt his eyes had widened into perfect circles. Glancing at the professor, he couldn't read anything on his face. He blamed the blindness, because Layton's voice had certainly been too full of emotion for him not to be showing anything. Don Paolo, however, looked as though he were visibly fuming. “He's with me. That's the story.” Had it been Des, he probably would have given a sarcastic remark at the end. But this was the professor. Professor Hershel Layton tended to reserve his sarcasm for Des alone. Recently, at least.

Now, Des couldn't see much but he could see that Don Paolo's face was beet red. “You got over her that quick, huh?”

Des was confused, but he could tell something was amiss. The comment alone was enough of a stab that Layton's fingernails were now digging into Des's hand. The professor uttered, “That's not true.”

“How long has it been, Layton? Since the ground opened up and swallowed parts of London? How long since you saw her, standing right in front of you, alive?”

“She wasn't . . . really alive. Stop—,” Layton's whole form stiffened as he cut himself off.

“She was still there. She was still _here_. You still got to say goodbye to her a second time, and now you're here—”

“Paul, please,” Flora jumped in, grabbing the man's arm as she saw that the professor was no longer able to defend himself.

He didn't shake her off, but he didn't stop, “—with someone new. Didn't take you long to move on, not even after that little brat left with his family!”

“Paul, this isn't appropriate,” Flora told him.

He pulled his arm from her grasp then. “I'll tell you what's not appropriate! The fact that this man,” he pointed at Layton, forcing him to let go of Des's hand and take a few steps back, “this so-called gentleman has won the affection and attention of _everyone_ who crosses paths with him—”

“Paul, stop!” Flora begged, but he was relentless.

“—when really he's nothing more than a common, neglectful, poor excuse for a _gentleman_ —”

“Paul!”

“—who couldn't protect the woman he loved, that _many_ have loved, and so he moves onto someone else in need of help to make up for it! Only now, he's _replaced_ her!”

“That's not true at all,” Layton speaks up, but his voice is broken. Des can't see them but he hears the tears, and it ignites something within him.

“You didn't deserve her!” Don Paolo ran at Layton, and Des snapped into action. While Flora rushed to the professor's side to pull the man out of Don Paolo's path of travel, Des intercepted the funny-looking individual. Balling his fist, he growled as he struck the larger man in the gut. Though it sent a spasm of pain through his wound, he continued without stopping to think. As Don Paolo fell to his knees, Des kneed him in the face and sent him backwards. Now that the man was on his back, Des stepped back himself. Adjusting his posture, he showed that the man would have to go through him to get to the professor. Don Paolo was shocked at the ferocity of Des's defense, and he could only imagine the dismayed expression on Don Paolo's face. He could certainly hear it when the other uttered the phrase, “Blind my ass.”

“For the record,” Des began, “I have no fucking idea what's being said here, Flora please pardon my language.”

“Pardoned,” she said from the living room.

“But I can guess, and I do not believe it warrants such an attack. And I do not take kindly to you disrespecting the professor in his residence.” Only he had that privilege.

“You're defending a man who barely noticed when that girl,” meaning Flora, “went missing.”

“I'm defending a man who has saved your putrid hide along with countless other individuals who did not deserve to be saved. I cannot even begin to explain how, because I am trying to forget it even as we speak.” His fists were curling and uncurling as he stared down at the man. “You should leave.”

Don Paolo didn't argue there. He got up slowly, still in shock over how easily Des had taken him down. Turning to the door, he paused before opening it. “This just proves my point: everyone is so taken with him.”

“You haven't given me much proof that you can do better,” Des added coldly. He could just barely see Don Paolo's hands become fists before the man opened the door and stepped out. Door slamming behind him, Des waited a few moments before turning toward the living room. He had to keep himself from running to the professor's side when he saw him and Flora seated on the couch, Layton doubled over with his face in his hands. Flora leaned into him, rubbing his back the same way she'd rubbed Des's after the incident that had triggered him. Des couldn't hear Layton crying, but he somehow knew what Layton was feeling. He'd felt it before, had experienced the brokenness that caused the professor's shoulders to shake and his lungs to cease. Seeing Layton like this was almost enough to make Des break himself.

But he couldn't. Not now. Getting on his knees before Layton, he hesitated touching the professor. He feared being pushed away, feared rejection. Fingers grazed the skin on Layton's hands, causing the professor to tense. Des didn't move any closer upon that reaction. He expected to be told to leave, to get away from him. He would try to understand, given the nature of Don Paolo's accusations.

However, Layton instead lowered his hands enough for Des to barely make out the redness under his eyes. Slowly, as if unaware of his own movements, Layton wrapped his arms around Des's shoulders and squeezed. Ignoring the searing pain in his wound, Des responded by squeezing Layton just as tightly. The professor wasn't sobbing, no, but he was shaken and needed stability. With that in mind, Des couldn't help but think that Layton was holding him like he was the last thing tethering him to this earth. Biting back on his own memories, Des was grateful when Flora asked, “Do you think I should go after him?”

“If you feel so inclined, I'm not in a position to stop you. But I wouldn't.”

He could tell she was analyzing their situation. When she stood, he knew she was just looking for a reason to leave them alone. “I think I will.”

Des nodded against Layton's shoulder. “I'll take care of him.”

“I know.”

While she left, Des continued holding the professor. A few moments passed before the man's broken voice caught his attention. “Please,” he struggled to say without sounding strained, “don't ask.”

This seemed to be the one bit of Layton's past Des had not picked up on long ago when he was delving into those sorts of things. Just thinking of the implications surrounding the conversation that had just transpired, he might have realized just how much he and the professor had in common much sooner. But implications were merely conjecture, and a line of questions was not what Layton needed to begin with. “I won't,” he told the professor. Subjects of this caliber must be addressed by the suffering individual, not questioned by a passerby. While Des had been intrusive in the past, he recalled respecting at least one piece of information Layton possessed. He simply knew this was that piece of information.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what's happening anymore.


End file.
